


That Look on Your Face

by Miaou Jones (miaoujones)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: First Kiss, Future Fic, M/M, Summer Olympics, Volleyball
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-07 09:42:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11056338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miaoujones/pseuds/Miaou%20Jones
Summary: Ushijima's face is perfectly sincere. He's always sincere, but Oikawa has never seen his face from this close up, he's never seen the perfection until now.





	That Look on Your Face

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ioo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ioo/gifts).



> Written for SASO 2017, Bonus Round 1.  
>    
> The move Oikawa does at the beginning of this is one I saw [Micah Christenson](http://www.teamusa.org/Athletes/CH/Micah-Christenson) do when he was still playing college volleyball at USC. I had hoped to link to a video of it, but couldn't find one on youtube or anywhere else. My words really don't do it justice here, alas.

The pass, if that valiant and desperate attempt by one of their outside hitters to keep the ball in play could truly be called a pass, is going to go out. Oikawa can tell as the ball reaches the pinnacle of its arc; everyone can tell—players on both sides of the court, refs, even the wildly cheering and groaning audience—but Oikawa is the only one who isn't going to let it happen. 

He ducks under the net without touching it, leaps over the opponents' side of the court at the corner and lands in neutral out-of-bounds territory, spins and punches the ball with his palm, sending it over the net. 

It hits the floor on the opposite side, untouched.

The refs signal: point, Japan.

The array of overhead screens are showing the replay but Oikawa doesn't look up as he goes into the team huddle, all grins. 

That kill has gotten them to match point. One point away from winning their first match in the Olympic Games. 

Serve—return—dig. 

The ball _shoots_ up from their libero's hands, but it feels like it's soaring in slow motion right to Oikawa and he knows his set will be perfect, knows Ushijima will spike it for the kill—

15-13, Japan in five sets. 

Oikawa turns his most brilliant smile on the world, shining it even brighter than the flurry of popping flashes from the spectators and assembled media. He's still smiling as he goes into the huddle, this one more of a group hug, the thrill of the win shared through touch, any words lost to the roar of the home crowd. 

When the victory huddle breaks up, Oikawa tilts his face up again, his smile a display of feathers no peacock could flourish more proudly. Theirs was the last match of the day and Oikawa idles as the crowd filters out, smiling for the last photos, smiling for everyone still looking.

He's not the only player remaining on the court. He turns as Ushijima comes up to him. "That play," Ushijima starts.

Oikawa cuts him off before Ushijima can lay into him about unnecessary showmanship on the court. "That play got us to match point."

"It was amazing," Ushijima says.

Oikawa has never known Ushijima to deploy sarcasm, but there's a first time for everything. He preens in spite of and because of it. "I know."

He holds the gaze evenly as Ushijima continues looking at him. "I liked it," Ushijima says, his expression as earnest as his tone.

Oikawa recovers from his surprise without even batting an eyelash, smiles more widely, and says, "It wasn't too flashy for you?"

Ushijima shakes his head. "It wasn't. I told you: it was amazing." His tone is solid instead of impatient at having to repeat himself, but before Oikawa can dwell on that, Ushijima says, "But I meant your face. I like when you get that look. Like you're happy, and better than everyone else."

"You _like_ that?" Incredulity takes over for a moment; then Oikawa grins, the curl to his lips different from the one he had on before. "Everyone else calls me an asshole for it."

Ushijima bends to pick up the volleyball at his feet. "I think Iwaizumi likes it too, even if he doesn't say so."

The blush is too fast for Oikawa to stop entirely, but he controls it quickly enough that by the time Ushijima straightens, ball palmed easily in his left hand, the sudden color is only lingering at his edges. 

If Ushijima notices, he doesn't say anything. He raises his hand, the ball going upside down as his palm turns, but still held securely in the comfortable splay of his fingers. "One hundred and one hundred?"

Oikawa nods. They've been doing this ever since they made the National team, when Ushijima asked him to set for one hundred spikes after that first dreamt-of practice. Ushijima has continued to ask him for it after every qualifying game on their way to the Olympics, and now it seems he's going to want it even here at the Olympics itself. 

It's not that Oikawa doesn't respect the dedication, not that he doesn't put in extra work himself—but Ushijima has natural talent, the kind that doesn't need this level of extra work in order to excel. "Steph Curry used to take shots until he made one hundred after every team practice," Ushijima had said when Oikawa asked him about it. Oikawa couldn't tell whether that was inspiration or justification, but the more he thought it about it, the less he felt the distinction really mattered.

So they continued to do a hundred spikes after every practice, after every game. Then one time, Ushijima asked if Oikawa would like to do a hundred sets as well—"I could toss to you." 

It had caught Oikawa off-guard in more ways than one. "Wouldn't that be too much?" he'd finally settled on saying.

Ushijima had shaken his head. "I have a lot of adrenaline, even after practice. Too much."

It's the same for Oikawa, and he'd nodded. "Counter too much with too much." He'd grinned. "All right, then."

And so, for weeks now, after every team practice, after every game, it's been the two of them: one hundred tosses and sets, one hundred sets and spikes.

After the last one today, they gather up the balls from the other side and drop them in the bin for the official equipment managers, who have been so far indulgent of these extra practice sessions. As they're walking to the locker room, Oikawa, with his flawless sense for such things, feels Ushijima looking at him. He turns, grin at the ready, wit about to roll off his tongue—

But Ushijima is quicker: "That look is gone now." He holds the gaze Oikawa has turned on him for a beat, then looks forward. "This was a good practice. You should feel good about it." 

Oikawa _does_ feel good about it; they're getting better and better, not just individually but as a combo; the sweet pass Ushijima sent him in the fourth set took everyone by surprise—everyone except Oikawa himself, of course—and it was the turning point, the key to getting them back in the match, taking that fourth set and forcing a fifth. And it was all because of practices like this one.

His brow furrows, knowing Ushijima is not so thick he doesn't realize it himself—isn't that why they've been putting in all these hours of practice above and beyond, after all—so is it that he's fishing for a compliment? He doesn't seem the type... but Ushijima has always had a certain regard for him, and Oikawa keeps praise for others closely guarded—so, strange as it seems to Oikawa, it just might be possible that Ushijima needs such words from him right now, in the wake of the first victory and as they prepare for the next match on the way to Olympic gold.

"What does it take," Ushijima says, still looking forward as he comes to a stop, his voice low even for him, and Oikawa feels more certain he knows where this is heading now. Maybe he wouldn't have done it two months ago, or even two weeks ago before they arrived at the Olympics Village for the first time, but he's prepared now to give Ushijima a word, more than one, of praise.

"What does it take," Ushijima turns to him, "to put that look on your face?"

The grin Oikawa has been wearing slips off. "What—"

"I like that look." Ushijima steps in; Oikawa holds his ground. "I want to be the one to put it there. To make you feel happy and better than everyone."

Ushijima's face is perfectly sincere. He's always sincere, but Oikawa has never seen his face from this close up, he's never seen the perfection until now.

He knows it's coming, even before he feels it, Ushijima's hands cradling his face, palm snug to his jaw, fingers splayed along his neck; he knows it's coming even before he feels the touch of breath, the touch of lips... he never knew—no, some part of him has known for a while now how much he's wanted this, and he lets the want surface now, opens himself to _want_ , opens his mouth—

The touch he's expecting, Ushijima's tongue, doesn't come. Oikawa isn't sure, but he thinks maybe Ushijima doesn't know how to kiss. The thought causes a surge in him: Oikawa can't believe how much he wants to teach Ushijima; his lashes flutter and a soft sound he doesn't even try to stop comes out of him. He pulls back, hands tightening on Ushijima's shoulders just enough so that Ushijima will understand he's not pulling away. 

This time when his lashes flutter, Oikawa lets his eyes open. He's not surprised that their gazes meet, and wonders if Ushijima kissed him open-eyed. "Put your tongue in my mouth this time," Oikawa says. Ushijima nods. Oikawa swallows and closes his eyes and parts his lips, and this time when Ushijima kisses him, he slips his tongue in, and the touch is so delicate—Oikawa would be surprised at the delicacy, if Ushijima hadn't floated him that beautiful pass today. 

He doesn't say anything when they part this time. Oikawa lets his hands slip from Ushijima's shoulders to his own side. Ushijima's hand lingers on Oikawa's face a moment longer. 

"This is a different look from that one," Ushijima says, studying Oikawa's face as he takes his hand back.

Even without looking in the mirror, Oikawa knows; he feels the truth of it.

"I like it," Ushijima decides.

Oikawa does too, and kisses him again.


End file.
